


5 Times Mickey Drops And Ian Doesn't Get It +1 Time They Do It Right

by penlex



Series: early and unprepared [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5 Times, Aftercare, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Barebacking, Bondage, Breathplay, Dom/sub Undertones, Edgeplay, Exhibitionism, Homophobic Language, Kink Discovery, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Aftercare, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Racist Language, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03, Season/Series 04, Shoe Kink, Sub!Mickey, Subdrop, Subspace, Topping from the Bottom, Under-negotiated Kink, aftermath of canonical rape, dom!Ian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-02-14 19:58:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2201169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penlex/pseuds/penlex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Neither Ian nor Mickey really understands what kind of sexual relationship they've got going on, and as a result some unfortunate things can happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Time They Hold Hands But It's Kind of Like Bondage

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is primarily from Mickey's point of view, which means there will be a fair amount of offensive language, including racial, homophobic, and sexist slurs, internalized and externalized homophobia, and general insensitivity. See also tagged warnings, which may be added to as the story progresses. Read at your own discretion.

-

Ian Gallagher brings several dozen novelties to Mickey Milkovich, chief among them obviously being the ability to have regular sex that is actually fun. Ian gets the dubious honor of a hundred of Mickey’s firsts, all in a gradual but continuous row, and Mickey does his best to not think about any of them. Usually he fails, but nobody has to know that but him.

Novelty number who-the-fuck-knows is being needed. Sure, Mandy likes it well enough when Mickey gets protective over her and even asks him to do it sometimes, but she sure as hell doesn’t need him to. But Ian comes to Mickey’s door, unannounced and uninvited just like he came into Mickey’s life altogether, with fucking tears in his eyes. Mickey immediately wants to make it better, whatever _it_ is, which probably would be totally new too if he wasn’t a big brother. He suppresses the stupid feeling (like he even _could_ fix anything if he tried), and he thinks he’s got his ass covered about it until Ian says, “I need to see you.”

It’s the worst possible time of course, with Mickey’s father not only home but also pissed off about something. Mickey can hear the bastard shouting with Mandy at his back. He scrambles for a suitable excuse, but Ian said he needed him and Mickey can _feel_ that somehow. Deep inside his gut, where Ian always manages to touch him, Mickey can physically feel Ian’s need for him, and it feels fucking good. Mickey knows it will be painful for him if he lets Ian down, and while pain is certainly not a novelty, Mickey intuits that the place where Ian makes him feel is never meant to hurt.

At least that’s what he tells himself as he slips quietly out the door. That way he doesn’t have to call himself the sucker that he apparently is.

-

Mickey meets Ian in the back room of the Kash-N-Grab, which is something that he’s fast and happily becoming used to no matter how much he tries to prevent himself from getting attached (it’s the lostest cause of all lost causes, but Mickey’s not one to give up). For all that he’s obviously calmed down quite a bit since Mickey told him he’d meet him here, Ian’s eyes are still kinda wet and a little red around the edges. Mickey would never say so out loud, but he thinks the look is sort of… pretty.

Ian goes in for a kiss of course, and after that ridiculous thought it’s way too much to even try for, so Mickey turns his back quickly. He feels like a fucking pussy, so to save some face he reaches out to the first thing he sees in front of him – a rolling metal rack of drinks and shit – and grabs ahold. He leans forward, spreads his feet a little, tries to be inviting but not eager. He hears Ian huff out a rough breath behind him, half irritated and half amused, and bites down on a grin because his faggy self gets joy out of making Ian have any kind of feelings at all.

Ian goes for Mickey’s hips first, which is pretty par for the course. He pulls Mickey back farther, presses a foot at the inside of one of Mickey’s ankles to push his legs wider, and Mickey has to press his lips tight together so he doesn’t moan like a little bitch because even just that small touch from Ian has him raring and ready to fucking go. Ian has this special brand of manhandling that Mickey can’t get enough of; he’s gentle but impossibly firm, like he’s making sure Mickey has no escape from how good he’s gonna make him feel.

Ian reaches around to undo Mickey’s belt and pants for him, which Mickey would have thought back before Ian would have made him feel childish or some shit, like he can’t undress himself, but instead it’s just hot as all hell. Ian’s hands brush against Mickey’s hips, thighs, cock, clinically efficient but somehow intimate despite that. It’s almost a shock when Ian finally presses firmly against Mickey’s cock, always is, and Mickey can’t help the way his breath rushes out of him, or the way he presses his ass back so that Ian is flush against him. Ian chuckles smugly in Mickey’s ear, and Mickey would whimper if Mickey did that sort of thing.

Ian fingers Mickey the same way he’d undressed him – one thing at a time until Mickey’s helpless not to ask for more. By the time his pants are down around his knees, Mickey is slightly damp from the light sweat he’s worked up just from pleasure, biting his lip hard and panting past his teeth. A soft but heartfelt “ _ah!_ ” manages to liberate itself from Mickey’s swollen mouth as Ian finally presses in – gentle but impossibly firm, no escape.

Mickey grips the bars of the drink rack so hard his knuckles go white with it. He doesn’t know why, but for some reason he likes sex with Ian better when Ian does all the touching, takes care of everything. There’s always the threat that Ian just won’t give him a reach around that makes the whole event somehow more exciting. Besides, it always feels way better for Ian to touch him than it feels for Mickey to touch himself. And not to mention, if it’s up to Ian if and when Mickey gets off Mickey doesn’t have to worry about getting there and can just focus on the feeling of Ian’s cock filling him up, doesn’t have to worry about coming too soon or too late because Ian seems to know exactly how much it’s going to take every time.

The bars are cold and hard in Mickey’s hands, comfortable against his heated palms, and Ian is hot and hard at his back. His belt sways with every thrust, leaving stinging slaps rhythmically against his bare thighs. The wet friction of Ian’s dick inside him leaves him feeling raw and so fucking good, Ian’s hands back on Mickey’s hips holding Mickey right where Ian wants him. Ian knows better than to leave marks due to their circumstances, but Mickey doesn’t doubt that he’d love it if he did.

When Ian wraps his hands around Mickey’s on the bars, it’s as if Ian knows all that, like he’s the one who made it that way, as if that’s how he wants it and like he’s going to enforce it. Like maybe Mickey has to earn his orgasm or some shit, and why the fuck that’s good Mickey doesn’t know but it fucking is. Suddenly, Mickey feels good not only in his body, but deeper than that somehow. He can’t contemplate anything else but a truly all-consuming pleasure; can’t see, hear, smell, or feel anything but Ian – and _fuck_ but does Ian look, sound, smell, and feel out-of-this-fucking-world _amazing_. Mickey’s done plenty of drugs in his life, and none of them could even hope to touch how high he feels trapped in between Ian and a hard place.

Mickey’s so completely blissed out and breathless, not even capable of making any of those gay sounds he usually has to try so hard to hold in, that he doesn’t notice at first when Kash walks in on them. The only thing that breaks through his weird buzz is that Ian has stopped moving, has pulled out, and he can only think pathetically, ‘ _did I do something wrong?_ ’ before Kash shouts, “What the fuck, Ian?” and it’s like Mickey’s been thrown without warning into the deep end of a pool filled with ice water.

Mickey runs, both from that terrible feeling and from the knee jerk fear and shame of being found out for the ass clown he is, but while the latter fades relatively quickly the former stays with him for the entirety of the twenty minutes it takes him to get home. He’s got fucking ice all the way down his spine and in his gut, and he feels heavy and slow and stupid. The longer he can’t shake it, the angrier he gets – at Kash, at Ian, or at himself he can’t fucking tell, so he just goes with all three and stomps his sore ass all the way back to the towelhead’s shithole of a store.

Mickey just fucking wings it when he gets there, grabs a snickers bar and taunts the guy. He knew Ian was fucking him too, and yeah, maybe he’d wondered a time or two why Ian would when he could just fuck Mickey, and yeah, maybe that could be classified as jealousy or whatever, but it’s never been like this. Mickey can’t remember a time when he ever felt this level of sick hatred for anyone, not even his piece of shit father. It’s brand new to him – another fucking novelty – that he doesn’t feel any urge for violence against Kash. He wants to hurt him, yeah, but he wants to hurt the motherfucker’s feelings, and he wants to get fucking nasty about it, wishes he knew him better just for the purpose of being able to say something that would hit harder, stab deeper.

Then again, Mickey thinks hysterically when Kash shoots him, maybe he already hit his mark without uttering a single thing. He feels distantly victorious about that, even though his gut still hasn’t unfrozen.

-

In juvie, Mickey feels cold and sick and sore all over. He tries to blame it all on the gunshot wound, but he knows that’s not his problem. Which is not to say that the gunshot wound isn’t its own fucking problem. The thing hurts like a bitch, and makes him an obvious target. But there’s no reason it would cause headaches or numb fingers. Not to mention his reaction time is down, which is dangerous as shit in a place like this, but no matter what Mickey does he can’t get back on his game. He takes it out on others of course, a sort of fake-it-‘til-he-makes-it plan of action that seems to work okay. He calls people names, hits them with his crutches, makes sure they all know his last name. He may feel like an easy victim, but there’s no way in hell he’ll let anyone else see that.

Ian is Mickey’s first visitor, as soon as Mickey’s allowed to have any. Seeing him gives Mickey a whole slew of bullshit emotions he absolutely does not want to deal with. Gladness is the most abundant, because Mickey is without a doubt at this point Ian’s fucking bitch, and would probably wag his tail like it if he had one. But coming in at a close second is guilt, which Mickey can’t explain. He knows he didn’t really do anything wrong, but still the heavy weight of a disappointment his reason tells him Ian doesn’t even feel presses down on Mickey’s shoulders until he physically feels laden with it.

Ian says, “I miss you,” and the weight lightens a little bit. Still, Mickey has an act to upkeep, so he tells Ian something or other about ripping his tongue out. Ian only grins at him, shiny-eyed, as if Mickey just told him some sort of romantic fucking in joke or some shit. He wants to be annoyed that Ian is so naively smitten with him, but the weight lifts further and with it the corner of Mickeys own mouth. He can feel his insides start to thaw a little bit, but ignores it so he can keep his gunshot wound excuse intact.

-


	2. That Time Ian Should Have Been Stubborn And Persistent But Wasn't

-

Ian comes with Mandy to pick Mickey up from juvie when he gets out. He says that it’s to protect her, but the way he won’t take his eyes off of Mickey, the way they seem like they might be a little darkened, Mickey knows it’s for him. Ian puts his arm around him as they walk away, and Mickey almost feels as if he has never been touched in his whole life it’s so stupidly nice. He brushes Ian off though, conscious of the eyes on his back, but he wishes he didn’t have to. He wishes he could let Ian touch him any way and any where Ian wanted to, but that’s just not the way things are. So instead, Mickey walks a little too close, looks a little too often, and meets Ian in the dugout after dark.

Ian has bulked up a bit since the last time Mickey saw him, and his hair is shorter. Mickey would bet the ROTC shit is probably to blame for both, but the why of these things is hardly the point. Mickey takes in Ian’s arms and hands and hard chest and belly, his strong thighs under tight jeans, and his mouth goes desert dry. Ian could toss Mickey around, if he wanted to, a thought that has electric arousal sparking hotly in the vee of Mickey’s groin. His cock wasn’t exactly sleeping on the job to begin with, but it’s more than attentive now. Mickey would squirm, let his hips rock a little in horny impatience, if Mickey did that sort of thing. As it is he just bites his lip, from the inside, so that Ian can’t see how needy he is.

They shotgun a beer. Mickey wants a kiss. He wants Ian’s tongue inside his mouth. He wants Ian to press him hard against the chain link fence behind him until the metal leaves red indents on the skin of his back, hold Mickey’s jaw with his hands so Mickey can’t close his mouth and can only take it as Ian crushes his own against it. He wants Ian’s other hand gripping Mickey’s hip so every time Mickey tries to thrust toward him for some sweet friction, all he accomplishes is a desperate wiggle, wants finger-shaped bruises. He wants Ian to not touch him until it almost hurts. He wants Ian to make him beg for it, wants Ian’s gaze heavy and lustful on him when he does.

True, Mickey also _doesn’t_ want to be that much of a fucking fairy, but shit happens, and Mickey’s nothing if not a pro at making up excuses for himself. So if and when Ian goes in for the kiss like he always does, and if and when Mickey finally lets it land and opens his hungry mouth to suck on Ian’s tongue like a bitch in heat, well… He had a beer, he had a joint, the heat of the moment got to him, whatever.

But Ian doesn’t go in for the kiss this time. He just turns Mickey around by the shoulder and pushes, gentle but firm, at the nape of Mickey’s sensitive neck to make him bend over. Mickey chews on the inside of his cheek once before complying to the silent command, confused, maybe a little hurt. He won’t admit that though, not even to himself, so he pushes that pansy shit aside and spreads his legs, tries to be inviting but not eager.

Mickey gets his own pants, but in the end Ian still makes him beg.

-

Most people never realize that Mickey has other moods than ‘thug asshole’. Sometimes Mandy wishes she were like most people. Maybe that would be easier. Then she could just brush Mickey’s moods off as all the same brand of him being a dickbag. But of course, here Mandy is, stuck not being like most people and instead being Mickey’s little sister, the one fucking person probably in the whole universe who can tell that he feels like shit, and probably also the one fucking person in the whole universe who can’t help caring about that no matter how hard she tries.

It’s weird, though. He doesn’t look sick, so the bad mood doesn’t fit. There are other reasons, of course, for Mickey to throw a piss fit like this – he’s lonely, he’s angry, somebody owes him money, he did something stupid and realized it – but all of them each have their own particular brand of douchebaggery, and this is definitely has all the markers of being sick. When Mickey’s sick it’s like he thinks he has to make up for having natural human weaknesses, such as the ability to be infected by germs, by being extra tough. He gets bossy, he gets bitchy, and he gets mean. But of course, like all humans, when Mickey’s sick he also gets sleepy and achey, which is not too hard to see if you know how. So yeah, Mickey’s bitchy and slow and he keeps rubbing at his temples like he has a headache, and putting on this brown hoodie Mandy didn’t know he had (she could have sworn it was Ian’s, but maybe he just borrowed it once when he was hanging out) like he’s cold.

But in addition to the fact that his nose isn’t red and his eyes aren’t watery and he doesn’t seem to be sleeping more than usual (or at all) and he hasn’t tried to make soup yet (always disastrous), Mickey also isn’t being bossy. Bitchy maybe, and mean sure, but Mickey won’t meet anybody’s eyes, rounds his shoulders when he goes down a hallway or through a door or passes someone, keeps his chin tucked down…

Mandy’s never seen him act that way before and it’s kinda freaking her out.

Right now he’s sitting on the couch in that hoodie, just staring off into space like some sort of pathetic loser, so Mandy plops down next to him hard enough to make him bounce like she knows really pisses him off. He glares at her, but only out of the corner of his eye, and other than that he doesn’t move.

“The fuck’s your problem, assbreath?” Mandy demands. She expects him to give her a noogie or a titty twister or something, if lethargically, but instead he – and Mandy literally can’t believe her eyes – covers his mouth with a hand and looks at her like she threw his favorite gun into the river. It’s gone in a second, both of Mickey’s hands back in his lap and his expression back to the basic Angry Lowlife.

He snaps, “Fuck you, slut,” and yeah, maybe that’s a little bit of a sore spot for Mandy, but keeping it that simple is pretty weak, for Mickey. Still, she just says, “Whatever, asshole,” and fucks off to her room. If he doesn’t want to talk about it he won’t.

It’s way, way past midnight when Mandy sneaks out of her room to make herself a snack or something, and sees Mickey in the exact same spot. He doesn’t acknowledge her at all, and she’s worried. She goes back to her room and digs around in the back of her underwear drawer for the box of tea Ian bought her months ago when she told him her mom used to make it, and makes a mug of it with some honey and lemon for Mickey instead of the snack for herself she was originally planning. He jumps when she offers it to him, like he really didn’t notice her moving around behind him in the kitchen.

Mandy didn’t know if Mickey would take the tea, so she’s relieved when he does, even if he only stares into it. She sits next to him on the couch, gently this time, and watches him do absolutely nothing for what has to be five or six full minutes. Eventually, Mandy can’t take the stillness anymore, but also doesn’t want to completely fuck up the moment they may or may not be having, so she just reaches out a hand and lays it softly on the back of Mickey’s neck. Mandy blinks several times but forces herself not to react further when he allows it. Slowly, she starts petting the short hairs at the base of Mickey’s skull, bracing herself for fallout. But Mickey just sighs heavily into his tea like a sad old dog.

Mickey’s eyes start to droop soon, his grip on the still steaming mug growing pretty lax. Mandy takes it and sets it on the floor away from their feet. She wants to say something to make Mickey feel better, whatever is wrong with him, but she’s unsure what would be too far. She eventually settles on, “your breath isn’t that bad.” Mickey only hums in acquiescence, so Mandy goes to bed.

She wakes up first in the morning, as she usually does, to find that Mickey fell asleep sideways on the couch. She heats takes the tea back into the kitchen and reheats it, then wakes him up. Mandy hands him the tea first, and watches him drink it. Then she hands him a toothbrush. She can’t explain why she’s as proud as she is to see the corner of his mouth lift up, to have him finally look her in the eye again.

Mandy hates her brother a lot sometimes, but when he flicks the handle of the toothbrush against her thigh as she stands to go get ready for school she also loves him a lot too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so that bit with mandy might have been a little ooc??? but this is pretty extenuating circumstances so i think we can all agree to just go with it


	3. That Time Frank Fucks It Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one doesn't have the little bit of resolution that the other two have, so it'll probably be more upsetting to people who are sensitive to the subject. Warning also for Mickey thinking Ian doesn't care about him, especially in the context of the drop and lack of aftercare.
> 
> And sorry it took so long too.

In southside, the worst thing about being a teenager, other than worrying about how bad your shithead parents are going to fuck up your chances at life, is that sometimes you get horny as all hell for no fucking reason. This doesn’t happen to Mickey that often, but when it does it hits him hard, pun fully fucking intended.

He and Ian are both working at the stupid Kash-N-Grab today. They’ve already fucked three times, and Mickey’s shift only started an hour ago, and he was late besides. Even with a somewhat sore ass and a throbbing bite on his shoulder (something he’s pretending not to have noticed so he doesn’t have to get mad about it), Mickey still feels like he hasn’t come in approximately five hundred years.

Ian is wearing a brown long-sleeved shirt with some dumb white stripes, three buttons in the front. It’s a little loose on him, but that has its own appeal because Mickey knows what’s underneath. Plus, it ain’t quite as loose around the pecs as it is everywhere else, and if Mickey stares hard enough he can almost see Ian’s muscles move when he does. Ian hands some jerk his change back, counts the singles out for him, fingers flipping through them with smooth efficiency. Mickey chews on his lip and shifts his weight uncomfortably. His fucking bones feel hot.

Mickey follows the guy to the door and locks it behind him, maybe bends a little bit to flip the sign to closed even though it’s not necessary to at all.

“Jesus,” Ian says. “Already?” When Mickey turns to raise his eyebrows at him he looks smug as hell though, a huge grin on and that fucking glint in his eye.

“Maybe if you wouldn’t give it to me like a fucking pussy once would be enough, huh?” he teases. It’s the biggest load of bullshit that’s come out of Mickey’s mouth in his memory, because Ian definitely knows how to put some elbow grease into a fuck. But the truth isn’t what’s important right now, and the line of crap gets Mickey exactly what he wants – Ian grabbing him by his hips and pushing him fast and rough toward the back.

“You sayin’ you want it harder, Mick?” Ian demands, with a bite on Mickey’s earlobe for good measure.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Mickey answers. Maybe his voice breaks a little, but what the fuck ever because he wants it as hard as Ian can give it to him right now, and he wants it _bad_.

Ian continues boxing Mickey backwards, until the backs of Mickey’s thighs hit something. Of course, Ian keeps moving forward when Mickey’s forced to stop, so they’re pressed tight together, and Mickey automatically spreads his legs to make room for Ian in between them. He lets himself drop his head back, grips Ian’s bicep hard and rolls his hips when Ian roughly tugs his shirt collar aside and scrapes teeth along his clavicle.

“Fuck, fuck,” Mickey gasps. “Fuck, back up, lemme turn around, fuck.” Ian bites him one more time, but then lifts his head to meet Mickey’s eyes with a hard, challenging look. Mickey holds his breath so he doesn’t moan at it.

“No,” Ian says firmly, and Mickey freezes.

“What the fuck?” he demands, dropping his hand from Ian’s arm like it burns. “What the fuck to you mean ‘ _no’_?”

“I mean no,” Ian insists easily. “We’re gonna do it like this.” Mickey opens his mouth to argue, because no fucking way, but before he gets anything out Ian lifts him minutely by the hips so his ass is on whatever he’s been backed into, then puts his fucking hands on the insides of Mickey’s knees and spreads his legs while inching his way up Mickey’s thighs. Mickey tries holding his breath again, but a little sound gets out of him anyway.

“Like this,” Ian repeats, and Mickey says, “Yeah. Okay.”

He ends up on his back on what has turned out to be some sort of press board cabinet. Mickey would be worried about it breaking if he wasn’t distracted by the dick up his ass. Mickey’s legs are in the air, and he felt kind of stupid at first, but then it’s kind of difficult to feel stupid in the middle of a good fuck so that didn’t last long (not to mention that Ian’s hands holding him behind the knee feel really nice).

Ian has got the hem of his shirt in his mouth to hold it out of his way, so Mickey gets to watch his abs flex as he thrusts. It’s a pretty great fucking view. Plus, his grunts and gasps coming out muffled through the fabric are fucking hot. The angle is a little off though so Mickey gets on his elbows, about to sit up a little to see if that’s better. But the second he does it, Ian lets his shirt drop out of his mouth and snaps, “Who the fuck said you could move?”

“What –” Mickey starts, planning to finish off with a truly heartfelt ‘the fuck?’ because seriously? Like because he takes dick he must take orders too or some shit, no way. Before he can get it out though, Ian interrupts him again, this time by letting go of one of his legs and slamming him back flat on the cabinet, hard.

It’s pretty obvious by the way he’s suddenly frozen, and by the look on his face, that Ian meant to push Mickey’s shoulder but misjudged it a little bit because his thumb is pressing into the hollow of Mickey’s throat. It’s just enough for Mickey to feel it, enough to know that his air flow _could_ be restricted even though it’s not really. Mickey can feel his body moving without his permission as Ian holds his gaze – his eyes get wider, his eyebrows draw together, his jaw drops, back arches. Ian’s mouth is hanging open too, and as he recognizes Mickey’s reaction as a positive one his eyebrows climb before he’s tilting his head curiously.

Experimentally, Ian presses his thumb down more firmly while he starts to roll his hips again. Mickey can’t help the whine that escapes him but decides not to worry about it when Ian responds with his own quiet, awed groan. Their eyes are still locked, and they stay that way until Mickey closes his, swallows hard past Ian’s gentle and steady grip, and with a shaky breath tilts his chin back. It takes Ian a couple seconds to get it, but when he does he adjusts his grip so his whole hand is on Mickey’s throat. Cautiously, he squeezes, just a little, and Mickey’s body reacts without him again to push both ass and neck harder into Ian, with a whimper.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Ian whispers. He sounds fucking reverent, and Mickey feels a little light-headed and kind of like he’s spinning, even though he’s certain Ian hasn’t cut off enough breath for that. For long, wonderful minutes, Ian’s hand on his throat feels fucking amazing and he floats close to orgasm in a way he’s never experienced before, and then Frank says, “Hello, boys,” and Mickey feels like he’s been hanged instead.

-

Mickey is shaky as he talks manically about killing Frank, and he feels weak and faint as if he hasn’t eaten in a couple days despite the huge lunch he had in preparation for all the fucking he was planning to do during his shift.

Ian argues with him of course. Mickey would probably argue with someone who wanted to kill his dad too, even though he knows the fucking bastard deserves it. It’s not a big deal. Not a big deal that Ian is keeping distance between them. Not a big deal that his mouth is pinched, his arms crossed, tone scolding.

Mickey leaves. He’s got shit to do, came up with a solid plan. It’s not like he’s running. None of that shit means anything to him, and neither does Ian. It doesn’t fucking matter what Ian thinks about him (even though Mickey’s body doesn’t seem to have gotten that memo, because he still can’t breathe).

It feels like an out of body experience when Mickey lies to his brothers, when he looks for Frank everywhere he can think of, when he calls Ian nothing but a warm mouth. He watches himself do all of this from a very long distance, too far away from it for his senses to pick up much of anything but tinny sounds. He’s helpless to shut his own mouth, unable to prevent his own back from turning on Ian’s watery eyes.

Of course, as soon as that’s done and it’s too late to take it back, Mickey is slammed back into earth. It’s like someone went inside his head and turned up the volume and increased the contrast by way too fucking much. He feels feverish as he follows Frank down the sidewalk, and has to pause when he chokes on the sharp scent of booze off of the fucking loser, and then stop altogether when the imaginary noose around his neck tightens.

Mickey doesn’t really decide to do what he does, but as his fist is flying he figures this is best. He gets a million birds with one stone like this – gets away from Frank and his big mouth; away from Terry and his big temper; away from his brothers who, even dumb as they are, will be seeing through him any fucking second now; away from Ian and his big eyes, big heart, big hands…

The cop pushes Mickey to the ground easily, and doesn’t notice Mickey gasping for breath. Or he doesn’t care. Just like Ian didn’t.

And that is just fine.


	4. That Time After That Thing They Don't Talk About

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So originally this was going to happen more directly after the 3x06 nastiness, but then I realized I couldn't bring myself to write that scene and I didn't think I could manage to put the level of despair that I think would be the result if Mickey was in subspace when that happened into words. Besides which, this fic is supposed to be about 'drop because of improper scening/aftercare, not trauma.
> 
> Warnings for reference and aftermath of rape go kind of without saying, but a reminder. Additional warnings for suicidal ideation in intrusive thoughts, dissociation, and severe depression. Although the chapter does have a hopeful ending, at least.

They kiss a lot that night. That’s mostly all they do really. Which Mickey would have thought would be lame as shit, but then they just made out on the couch for hours after dinner and a movie and Mickey was fucking into it. Ian’s warm hands sweeping up and down Mickey’s sides underneath his shirt felt a lot better than he could have ever expected, and by the time Ian decided it was time for them to go to sleep Mickey was warm all over with tingly lips and a weird buzz like he’d smoked a bowl when really the two of them had just shared a coupla cigarettes.

Ian slept on the couch, Mickey on the floor next to him. Normally, he hates that, but it doesn’t feel too hard then.

He doesn’t think about what happens in the morning.

He doesn’t think about it when Ian has to leave. He definitely doesn’t think about it when Terry gives him the same cruelly triumphant look that’s usually reserved for Mandy.

He thinks about it a little bit, accidentally, and feels like he’s going to vomit. Mickey’s never had a real huge problem with being dirty, but right now his skin feels like it was smeared onto his bones and muscles in thick disgusting layers. It’s greasy and it stinks and Mickey thinks he’d feel better if… he doesn’t know, maybe if he set himself on fire or something. He fantasizes about it. It’d hurt. But even DNA can’t survive fire. He’d be clean, at least, in the seconds before he died.

But Mickey doesn’t actually want to die, and still fears pain like a fucking pussy for all that he should be used to it by now. So he just takes a gun from his drawer, the first one available for him to grab, and he goes to his warehouse roof where there are targets waiting for him. He shoots for a long fucking time, until his hands are kind of numb from the recoil and his arms start to feel the fatigue of absorbing the shock for so long. By the time Ian gets there, Mickey’s not making many shots anymore.

Mickey sees Ian come around from the corner of his eye as he lines up a shot he already knew he wasn’t going to make before Ian showed, and which now is impossible. That’s unusual – usually Ian’s presence gives him a boost of confidence because he knows Ian’s into him, likes to watch his arms and back work, the tilt of his chin and the glint of his eyes. Not now though. Now Mickey feels shaken and unbalanced (as if he wasn’t fucked up enough by himself). He’s relieved and fearful simultaneously, and the dichotomy makes him dizzy, making the woozy feeling of his probable concussion worse.

“So thanks to me,” Ian says, in his fake voice that Mickey hates. “You’ve been pistol whipped and shot in the ass.” The words feel exactly like the events that they describe, and Mickey just concentrates on shooting so that his knees don’t buckle. The phantom pain passes, but the joke remains. Mickey feels it on his shoulders. It sinks into him, fits right in with the rest of the sludge that he’s comprised of. But this is best. Better to feel like warmed over shit right now and get over it than –

“I just wanna make sure you’re okay,” Ian says, genuine this time. He’s special again – concerned and sweet, but with no trace of pity. His care feels like fresh water over the sick sweat on the back of Mickey’s neck, like cold foamy beer in Mickey’s belly.

He starts to sink into that place. Ian has familiarized him with it by now; six or seven out of ten times they’re together Ian brings him there. This is exactly what he didn’t want. Feeling this good is addictive, a stronger gravitational force than any drug Mickey has ever had the pleasure of trying. To Mickey, sometimes, it feels like his pull to Ian is stronger even than his pull down to Earth. But with both feet on the ground, Mickey knows that they have to step back from each other. They can’t go around being in- being fag boyfriends or some shit. What happened that night can’t ever happen again, no matter how great it felt. It still feels like a dream anyway, should be easy enough to let go of in the waking hours. But of course, none of that knowledge does Mickey any good when Ian casts his fucking fairy spell or what the fuck ever it is that does this and drags Mickey down into Fantasyland where nothing hurts and everything is sunshine and rainbows and fresh pot smoke and chocolate pudding.

So Mickey does his best to rub together the last two brain cells he’s got that haven’t yet succumbed to the fog of (un-fucking-warranted!) bliss inside his head, and makes himself keep shooting. He summons up as much anger as he can, makes himself think over and over again that this all is Ian’s fault until his hindbrain starts to believe it. Ian can’t take Mickey’s cold shoulder for long. He shouts and turns to go.

“Fine,” he snarls as he retreats back the way he came, taking Mickey’s weird contact high with him.

 _Fine_ , Mickey growls back silently. But he knows it’s weak. He’s weak.

Mickey doesn’t expect the anger to keep growing, but it does. He started that ball rolling and now he can’t stop it. It’s not like he’s never done that before. This whole situation is a case in point of that.

Terry tells him the whore is pregnant, tells him he’s going to marry her. Terry tells all of Mickey’s siblings, and gives Mickey that look again when they all laugh. Iggy throws an arm around Mickey’s shoulder and mouth breathes all over Mickey’s face as he begins planning a bachelor party Mickey sure as hell did not ask for and does not want. His arm is heavy, his breath thick. Mandy rolls her eyes at them, clearly disgusted (Mickey’s disgusted too, bile in the back of his throat), and announces her departure with as much snot as a teenage girl can put into her voice. She’s going to hang out with Ian. Mickey is grateful she didn’t say so, and furious. Furious with Terry, with Ian, with her, with himself.

He’s terrified too, less and less able to push that into the background of his life. He pretends it isn’t there, like usual, but that doesn’t change the way his heart races and the way he almost flinches at everything, the way his skin crawls when people touch him, or look at him, or breathe. The anger is easier. Anger is always easier.

So the ball keeps rolling, and Mickey can’t stop it.

But he probably could have tried harder. He doesn’t need Mandy to tell him that. His anger leaks out his ears slowly but surely until only the terror is left, but eventually that starts slipping away from him too. Mickey would never have thought that he could miss a feeling like that, but it leaves absolutely fucking nothing in its wake. Where Mickey’s skin before was heavy and gross, now it’s as if he has next to none. He’s just tissue paper painted together with glue to hold together a void.

He sleeps in the same bed as Svetlana, but it doesn’t bother him. It probably should, but he feels nothing. Svetlana takes advantage of him for the first few weeks, keeping all her money and taking some of his. He lets her because he doesn’t care, covers for her on autopilot when Terry asks about it. She must think he’s doing it out of the goodness of his fucking heart or something because she buys him a nice deck of cards and kisses him on the mouth when she gives it to him.

He thinks of Ian, and jerks back like he’s been burned, jumps up from where he was sitting on the edge of their bed, sending the deck of cards bouncing across the floor. A long string of curses he’s barely aware of fall from his mouth on a harsh breath, and he runs his hand through his hair.

Mickey meets Svetlana’s eyes from across the room. She watches him silently for several long moments. Then she lets the corners of her mouth turn upwards, and leaves a wad of cash on top of the sheets before getting up onto near silent feet and closing the door behind her. Mickey can hear her address Mandy out in the hall, something about what’s for dinner.

“I don’t fucking know,” Mandy answers her. “Is anybody even hungry yet?” She’s irritable. She misses Ian. Mickey takes a deep breath and allows himself to miss Ian too, for just a second.

He could eat.


	5. That Time Carl Figures It Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no, you are not hallucinating, this is indeed a new chapter. also, it is the filthiest porn i have ever written. happy birthday to me lmao.

It’s not like Mickey has never given Ian a blowjob before. He’s just always acted like he doesn’t want to, made a big deal out of it, put on a production about how hassled he was. He’d huffed and puffed and complained about how nasty it was, how much he hated the taste, how hard it was to breathe around Ian’s girth and to keep his teeth covered when his mouth was stretched so wide (flattery never hurt anybody). But the truth was, he had always loved every second of it. Every time Ian went down on him, Mickey had held his breath waiting for Ian to demand that he return the favor, because he was too god damn chicken shit to take the initiative or whatever. But most of the time Ian didn’t.

Of course, it was pretty fucking silly for Mickey to take issue with being on his knees for Ian, since Ian was somehow always in total control of Mickey while he was going down on him, so it didn’t really make too much of a difference who was blowing who. Ian would hold Mickey’s hips tight in his big hands, the same way he did when he was fucking Mickey hard, holding him still right where he wanted either way. His eyes had always pinned Mickey just as effectively, such a sweet looking light color and yet hard and still, warning Mickey not to misbehave.

When Mickey had blown Ian, in the past, it was different than all that. Ian would slide his hands through Mickey’s hair, all tender and shit, and gaze down at Mickey like he was thankful for something. That look was almost more uncomfortable than trying to swallow around a hard dick. Mickey would always hold back his moans as best he could, not wanting to admit how hot it got him to suck Ian off, and Ian would make soothing sorts of noises as he gently fucked Mickey’s mouth, the same slow and smooth steady rocking that Ian would sometimes fuck him with, as if Mickey’s mouth could feel it good the same way his ass would have (it kinda did, a little bit).

This time is not the same. Ian spreads his legs and just looks at Mickey expectantly, waiting for Mickey to kneel in what Ian was clearly thinking of right then as Mickey’s proper place, not strictly giving him the option to shy away from it like he had before. He doesn’t say anything else, after his demand, just raises an eyebrow and tilts his chin down to Mickey’s spot on the floor, letting Mickey know that he isn’t bluffing and that his patience is wearing thin.

It’s not that Mickey doesn’t want to suck Ian’s dick. He really, really does. His mouth is watering, for fuck’s sake, he might as well already be gagging on it he wants it so bad. It’s just that he feels a little trapped. A little… inadequate. He thinks it’s capitulation more than a blowie that Ian really wants, and while that’s something that Mickey has learned by now he seems to be more than happy to give Ian, he’s not entirely sure how much of it Ian wants. Or even if he’s right. After all, Mickey has done his damnedest for years to make it seem like all he wanted out of Ian was sex. Maybe it’s time to reap what he’s sowed.

But even the uncertainty of where he and Ian stand is less unpleasant than not being able to stand by Ian at all. So Mickey takes his places. He slides his hands up Ian’s jean clad thighs and glances up at him much more meekly than he would ever do on purpose, more meekly than he thinks he ever has before. He hates that, but after so long he can’t make his body be dishonest with Ian anymore. Well, right now, after everything, maybe he doesn’t want to anyway.

Mickey’s fingers are shaking a little as they gradually make their way up to Ian’s belt buckle. He’s nervous. He’s been nervous doing this before, but this feels worse. He keeps checking Ian’s face, like he thinks Ian might change his mind at any moment and tell Mickey too bad so sad and to fuck off. Stupid. No red-blooded male that Mickey’s ever heard of turns down a blowjob, not even from someone they may or may not hate with passion. At least he’s in the clear there, if nowhere else.

Ian’s buckle and pants come open with a familiar, almost comforting, soundtrack, but Ian’s body language stays the same, making him feel almost like a stranger (but not, not really, because strangers aren’t important and their opinions don’t matter). He lounges back on his elbows as Mickey takes a deep breath and ducks his head down, relaxed but distant, not touching Mickey like Mickey is used to.

Where Mickey was practically drooling just a minute before, now his mouth is frustratingly dry and he has to make due at first with just giving Ian’s prick short licks and kisses in between swallowing hard, reflexively and uselessly. Mickey feels a sense of urgency about it that makes it particularly difficult to generate some fucking saliva. His heart beats hard like he’s running a race. Ian sighs, but Mickey can’t tell whether it’s from pleasure or annoyance.

The whole blowjob goes about like that. Ian stays mostly quiet, doesn’t touch Mickey more than where his prick is in Mickey’s mouth, down his throat, sliding across his lips and over his tongue, leaving its bitter musky taste all over and making Mickey pant and squirm and _want_. He would probably be having a great time – sucking Ian eagerly, kneeling for him fully clothed and desperate on the floor of Ian’s bedroom, where Ian jerks off, where he sleeps, where the door doesn’t fucking lock – if not for the fact that Ian doesn’t even rock his hips like he usually does, doesn’t even decide to get rough with Mickey like Mickey probably deserves. Mickey has no way to tell if he’s meeting the requirements of Ian’s ultimatum, and he doesn’t know what the hell he’ll do if Ian’s not satisfied with him.

When Ian comes, Mickey swallows, which he’s never done before but immediately wants to do again. The taste and texture are terrible, which he already knew, but he likes the way the flavor clings to the back of his throat, lingers in his mouth, and more than that he likes the hot rush of knowing he has such a messy, dirty, naughty part of Ian inside of him, like a mark he doesn’t have to hide, or some really filthy, possessive dirty talk that he doesn’t have to come up with on his own and imagine in Ian’s husky sex voice when he’s all by himself. He’s never had Ian in his ass without a condom before, but the slick slide of Ian’s jizz down his throat makes him wonder hopefully if that would make him feel the same way.

Mickey stays where he is, panting, shaking, so hot. He can feel a drop of his own sweat tickle him as it drips down the flushed column of his neck and into the hollow of his collarbone, which shouldn’t be erotic, but Mickey’s eyes are so blown wide with arousal that when he looks up at Ian it looks like he’s glowing. Ian looks satisfied and smug and powerful, and a low whine works its way out from the back of Mickey’s throat and his hips lift urgently. His cock is throbbing. He hasn’t unzipped or even adjusted himself since he started, concentrating his efforts entirely on pleasing Ian, and he can feel the zipper of his jeans pressing painfully against his hard-on through his underwear, which he can feel have an impressive wet spot them, part of it cooled and part of it fresh and warm and still being added to as his dick twitches eagerly inside them.

Ian watches him squirm silently, with a smooth expression, tilts his head to the side like Mickey is something mildly interesting. Mickey looks up at him with hot eyes and whines again, wordlessly and reflexively begging Ian to do or say something, anything. Finally, Ian shifts, moving almost lethargically, as if the results of his actions mean nothing at all. He only really moves one leg, just enough so that he can press the bottom of his booted foot into Mickey’s crotch. Mickey lets out a sharp whimper immediately, high-pitched and needy and not a little bit pained. He curls over Ian’s foot, curls his fingers convulsively into the denim covering Ian’s calf. His head thunks onto Ian’s knee and his eyes squeeze shut tight. He doesn’t attempt to keep quiet, too far beyond that kind of control, as Ian begins to slowly rotate his ankle, massaging his foot over Mickey’s clothed and neglected cock. He’s almost clinical about it, but it never occurs to Mickey’s foggy mind to complain. The sole of Ian’s boot is treaded and unflexible, and it _hurts_ , but god it feels so good to finally be touched. Ian keeps up the steady, unyielding pressure, until Mickey is letting out a loud thready moan as he comes hard in his pants. Even then, Ian keeps his foot where it is, a hard dominating presence against Mickey’s oversensitive cock, until Mickey’s breathing begins to slow to a normal rate. And after that he only moves it just enough to tuck it underneath where Mickey has sat back on his heels, so that the slope of the top of his foot is cradling Mickey’s balls through his shoe and Mickey’s clothes, which to Mickey feels simultaneously like some weird form of cuddling and like a threat, so he breathes deep and doesn’t move, accepting of whatever comes.

But Ian doesn’t say or do anything else to Mickey at all. He picks his journal up from his bed and goes back to scratching away at the pages, and Mickey stays right where he is in his messed clothes until he hears someone coming up the stairs, patiently waiting for Ian’s judgement, which never comes.

-

Mickey wakes up in the morning, on Ian’s floor (still? again? who cares), and freezing fucking cold, shivering and cranky. He’d never changed last night, just done his best to cover the wet spot at the front of his jeans whenever anyone but Ian was around, and now his come has dried against his underwear and his skin. It’s itchy and it pulls sharply on his pubes every time he moves and it probably smells. It still feels dirty as hell, but now it’s definitely not in any good kind of way. Mickey starts to rise, but then freezes halfway through the motion so that Ian doesn’t kick him in the head as he swings his legs around to step over Mickey and get up, and then instead of sitting like he’d intended Mickey pretends to still be asleep without thinking about it. He can feel Ian watching him for a minute, not fooled in the least, but then the redhead leaves the room without saying anything and Mickey hears the shower hiccup as it starts.

Mickey still doesn’t get up while the noisy Gallagher breakfast takes place, instead just listening to them laugh and shout and scrape plates and furniture around, even though his nuts are really beginning to chafe. Eventually though, when it finally goes quiet downstairs, Mickey drags himself into the bathroom to get clean. The shower hiccups as it starts, and Mickey concentrates on not thinking about how Ian probably stood right here, just as naked as Mickey is now, and especially not about how Mickey was not invited.

Mickey heads downstairs to sniff out a beer for breakfast, since he’s not hungry, his skin still warm from the hot water but rapidly taking on the chill, his hair still kinda wet and sticking uncomfortably to the back of his neck. He doesn’t find a beer, but he does find Ian on the couch watching a nature documentary on a low volume. Ian looks over at Mickey where he stands uncertainly in the doorway without greeting, but after a few seconds he gestures with a sideways nod for Mickey to join him. Mickey thinks about sitting on the floor at Ian’s feet and leaning his back against Ian’s shin where Ian can run his fingers through Mickey’s damp hair and make it stand up, but he’s a little disturbed by how strong the urge is, so instead he sits tensely on the farthest end of the couch. Ian frowns but doesn’t comment, and Mickey’s stomach twists.

Somewhere around the time the chrysalises on the TV start turning into butterflies, Ian turns so that he’s facing Mickey, shuffles closer, and kisses him deeply, sliding his tongue into Mickey’s mouth in one smooth decisive stroke. He’s got one hand on the side of Mickey’s face, his thumb digging just so into the edge of Mickey’s jaw, his ring and pinky fingers framing Mickey’s ear. Ian runs his other hand teasingly from near Mickey’s nipple down his side to tug playfully at the drawstring of the soft grey sweats that Mickey “borrowed” from Lip’s drawer, dipping his fingers underneath the waistband. It’d be nice, but Mickey feels distinctly like he’s still covered in yesterday’s come, even though of course all of it has been washed off, and before his reason can be activated he’s already flinched away from Ian’s touch. Ian stops kissing him and rests their foreheads together. Mickey’s eyes are closed in chagrin at himself so he can’t see Ian’s expression, but he feels that Ian’s eyebrows are furrowed up against his. He wants to kiss that little wrinkle, and then get on his knees and make up for being weird, but before he can turn that thought into action Ian has already sighed and drawn away. They watch the butterflies on the TV get eaten by birds in silence.

When the rest of the Gallaghers start filtering back into the house in the sunny late afternoon, Mickey picks a fight with Ian and has absolutely no idea why. He just lashes out after all day of the oppressive quiet that fell between them after Mickey put Ian off him, and then the intrusion of a bunch of noisy people that don’t fucking like him or want him here. Behind Ian, who is giving Mickey the Chin, Carl looks at Debbie for an explanation and she shrugs uncaringly. Ian opens his mouth, to keep the pointless fight going or to end it Mickey doesn’t know or care to find out. He flees upstairs faster than a rat, but not fast enough to miss the I-told-you-so look on Lip’s face. But he doesn’t leave, and he’s right there waiting on Ian’s floor when they all start coming up for bed hours and hours later.

Mickey wakes up cold again, and Ian steps over him again, and showers alone again. Mickey doesn’t bother washing himself today, since he doesn’t have any reason to. He feels dirty (again? still? doesn’t matter), but he knows there’s nothing on him so there’s no point in trying to wash it away. Still, the feeling is bothersome and it gets on his nerves all day long, until he snaps and starts more shit with Ian when he’d been planning on offering to help Fiona with the metric fucking ton of pasta she’s working on for them all, hoping to at least earn some favor with somebody.

It becomes a routine. Four days in a row of Mickey being fucking angry all the time (not unusual, honestly, but _this_ time there’s not much of a reason) and taking it out on Ian no matter how shitty he feels during and after. Ian stops trying to touch or speak to him after the third day, and on the morning of the fifth day he steps on Mickey on his way out of bed in a way that makes it obvious that it was no accident. Mickey just waits, sick to his stomach and feeling helpless to stop it despite it being his own fucking fault, for Ian to just kick him the hell out.

On the fifth day, Mickey makes it all the way through dinner, even though he’s feeling high strung as fuck and every little thing that happens feels like nails on a chalkboard. His hands and teeth hurt from how hard he’s been clenching them all day, and he’s given himself a headache that way too, but he watched that fucking Van Damme movie with Ian this afternoon and didn’t say shit about it. He thinks he might make it all the way through the night if he can just get the fuck out of here before anything else sets him off, but first he’s got to wash all the dishes from dinner, a passive aggressive punishment from Fiona because he keeps storming off during meals which he has accepted because he deserves it for being such an asshole when she hasn’t done fucking anything to him.

And he is an asshole, but he didn’t think he was this much of an asshole. The only explanation is that it was an accident, that Debbie… startled him, or something. She just comes over to put her dish in the sink and he doesn’t quite notice her until she brushes against his elbow, and he— Well, he guesses he must jump, but all he knows is that suddenly he feels lightheaded and his heart is racing anxiously, and Debbie has hot soapy water in her face. She yelps, and in reality it’s probably more out of shock than pain, but Mickey is panicking and thinking of half a dozen worst case scenarios anyway as he reaches out for her to try to help. What if he burned her, what if she goes blind, what if she gets permanent scars on her face, what if—

“Jesus fuck, Mickey,” Ian snarls from the table where he’s standing up, towering over Mickey in anger even from a distance, and Mickey freezes like a rabbit in the shadow of a hawk with his hands halfway to Debbie’s wet cheeks (is it water? is it tears? fuck fuck fuck fu—). “If you hate everyone here so fucking bad why don’t you just fucking leave, huh?” The room is silent except for Debbie sniffing as she wipes her own face (her eyes are open and she’s looking between the two of them she’s fine she’s fine she’s fine…), even Mickey’s breath has stopped. Or maybe especially Mickey’s breath. Maybe only his.

Mickey feels his own eyes start to fill up with hot water, but he doesn’t have any jumpy dishwashing asshole to blame it on.

“I don’t- fucking- want to,” he grits out, and then he runs away, like he has the rest of this miserable week, before the (useless and stupid, as if this wasn’t inevitable) tears can make their way onto his paled cheeks. Behind him, he hears Ian ask the room at large, more bewildered than angry now, “What the fuck?”

No one answers.

-

Debbie tells Ian three different times that it was an accident, which of course he knows. Mickey may be a real asshole, but he’s not that much of an asshole. Ian’s actually pretty confident that Mickey is a good person, or he wouldn’t have ever gone for anything more than sex, in love with the guy or not. He’s had his fair share of pricks, in more than one way, and he knows nothing ever comes of trying to get more out of them than what they’re good for. Mickey’s not like that. He’s good for a lot. Or at least he could be. He is already, sometimes.

So anyway. Point is, Ian doesn’t know what the fuck his problem is. They certainly haven’t always agreed, in fact usually they don’t, but Mickey’s never picked a fight over nothing (although maybe once or twice, just for attention, but those were little, not like this).

Ian is on the couch right now, listlessly playing Street Fighter against the computer. He’s still pissed about yesterday, even though his anger simmered down pretty significantly when Mickey had almost cried over it, but a good part of that might be out of general crankiness from sleeping on the couch last night. He hadn’t wanted to see Mickey, and Mickey still hadn’t left, apparently planning to have to be forcibly removed if they really want him gone (Ian doesn’t, not really, he just wants him to stop being such a dickhead).

A little bit into Round 2 (of an unknown tally), Carl comes in and plops down on the couch next to Ian, slouching so dramatically that his chin is pressed into his skinny chest. He’s wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves ripped off and a hoodie and Ian almost – _almost_ – smiles. After a few moments, Carl says, “Combo C.” Ian tries it out trustingly, and wins with the unrealistically loud crunch of his opponent’s neck. He feels a little too apathetic to start another match, though, so he and his little brother just stare silently at the loading screen until Carl speaks again.

“You, like, mean to Mickey in bed?”

Carl, of course, is known for non-sequiturs and inappropriateness and related, but that is far out enough to have Ian’s head snapping around sharply to gawp at him.

“What the hell, Carl?” he demands, a third scolding, a third amused, and a third just plain embarrassed because he guesses, depending on your definition of ‘mean’, he kind of is. Carl just looks over at Ian too, and doesn’t redact or rephrase, which is wholly unsurprising. Ian just blushes and looks away stubbornly, but eventually he can’t resist and asks, “Why?”

Carl shrugs carelessly as he explains, calm and unflustered as ever, “Saw it in porn once, but I didn’t get it.”

“You didn’t get it,” Ian repeats dully, uncomprehending.

“Yeah,” Carl confirms, and then after a pregnant pause he clarifies, “Didn’t know what was in it for the chick.”

“Okay…” Ian says, drawing out the word, still not understanding what Carl is trying to get at, how this is relevant to how Mickey has been acting lately, which it must be, right?

“Yeah.” Carl shrugs again, and tells Ian, nonchalant as you fucking please, “So I looked it up at the library – their porn blocker is just an extension, idiots – and it can make people go weird if you don’t, like, finish. But it seems like it would be really cool, with all that other stuff.” And then he reaches over and grabs the other controller, selects two-player mode, and starts flipping through characters. Ian just focuses on choosing his own fighter, knowing that’s all he’s gonna get, and also that Carl will very soundly kick his ass at this game if he lets him.

While everyone else hangs out in the living room that night after dinner, Ian takes some leftovers and a beer up to Mickey, who hasn’t come out of the brothers’ room since he disappeared into it last night. When Ian opens the door, he sees Mickey there, sitting on the floor in the dark, across the head of the sleeping area he’s got set up for himself with his back resting against Ian’s bed, his head tilted to rest on the mattress. Mickey looks up sharply at the sound of the door clicking closed behind Ian, shutting them in with just the streetlamp outside for light, and he looks just like a deer in the headlights. Ian holds up the food he brought and hopes that Mickey sees it for the peace offering Ian means it to be. Mickey doesn’t seem to react, but Ian has learned (the hard way) that Mickey’s silences usually are more acquiescence than not. So he sits down on the other end of the arranged pile of blankets and things, and holds out the loaded plate. Eventually, Mickey takes it and begins to eat. Ian drinks the beer for something to do. There’s a little less than half left when Mickey is finished with the food, and Ian hands that over too, but he’s only patient enough to let Mickey take two gulps before he puts his mouth in the way.

Mickey drops the beer bottle with a muted clunk, and Ian very vaguely realizes it’s probably spilling all over their floor and Mickey’s borrowed pillow (their only extra) as he licks his way in between Mickey’s lips. Mickey seems receptive at first, but then he flinches back, like he got pinched or something. The rejection hurts, makes Ian angry and kind of jealous and bitter and mean (what like Mickey thinks he can do better?!), but he takes a deep breath and pulls back so that he can really look at Mickey, as best as he can in the dark anyway, and see if he can tell what the problem is.

It's strange. When Ian squints at him in the low light, Mickey looks… embarrassed? And kind of resigned. Ian takes a leap and guesses that maybe, despite Ian initiating a spontaneous makeout session even after they’ve been fighting, that Mickey feels like Ian doesn’t really want him. It doesn’t really make much sense, but feelings tend not to, and maybe…

Ian thinks a little more seriously about what Carl said. He’s not really ‘mean’ to Mickey in bed, or at least he doesn’t intend to be, but he definitely is… bossy. Demanding. A couple times he’s told Mickey flirtatiously to ‘impress him’. Mickey always has, and Ian has always made sure Mickey knew it. Or at least, he thought he had. But maybe he hasn’t. Before he can overthink it any more than that, Ian blurts out into the quiet, “I don’t want you to go.” It’s too loud, and Mickey flinches again, so Ian lowers his voice and brushes his mouth across Mickey’s cheek as he repeats it in a mumble. He says it again one more time in between presses of his lips to the soft skin under them as he kisses his way over to the corner of Mickey’s mouth, and when he finally gets there Mickey pushes into him right back with an urgent gasp.

They kiss wet and deep and too hard, like it’s been years since the last time they did instead of just a few days, and Ian shuffles his way forward on his knees so that he’s kneeling in between Mickey’s spread legs and pressing him back harder into the side of the bed, the inside of Mickey’s thighs against the outside of Ian’s. With the height difference, plus how Ian is on his knees and Mickey’s on his butt, Ian has to hunch over a little and lift Mickey’s chin with his thumbs to get at the angle he wants, but he likes the way the position makes him tower over Mickey, and Mickey seems to be into it to. But Ian kinda wants to test that theory.

Ian drops one hand down to Mickey’s hips, grips him tight over the pair of sweats he stole from Lip that first morning, and pulls up on him insistently until Mickey lifts himself up by arching his back (Jesus fuck, he’s _so_ _hot_ ) and Ian can scooch forward that last little bit so that Mickey is just about in his lap. He slides that hand way up high on Mickey’s thigh, resting it heavily almost at the join of leg and hip, but still low enough that he can dig his thumb in a little to the softness of the very top of Mickey’s thigh. He keeps the other where it is, moving Mickey’s head around as he pleases while they kiss, just because he can. Mickey gasps, arches up again, then gives a frustrated huff and drops back down so that he can go for the hem of Ian’s shirt. Ian pulls back at that, and takes both hands away so that he can wrap them tightly around Mickey’s wrists and pull him away. He crowds further forward, pressing his groin into Mickey’s and making them both moan, before pushing Mickey’s arms out wide and behind and then curling Mickey’s compliant fingers into his sheets.

“Keep those there,” he orders, and his voice is husky because his throat is dry with how damn good Mickey looks, even when Ian can barely see him, with his shoulders and arms stretched out like that, breathing hard in Ian’s lap, making a wet spot in somebody else’s pants. Mickey lets out the absolutely gorgeous lovechild of a whimper and a grunt, and since nothing else has happened since Ian figures he must be reacting to Ian’s command. He certainly doesn’t disobey, just pants and squirms just a tiny bit, and waits.

Ian thinks to himself, _Fuck yeah_ , and then he says it out loud too, just to make sure they’re on the same page. Mickey smirks at him a little, not quite back to his usual cockiness, but getting there. Ian leans in quick, pulls the collar of the t-shirt Mickey’s wearing (this one stolen from yours truly) away from his neck so that he can bite down hard just below Mickey’s collarbone. That makes Mickey yelp, and arch his back again, and throw his head back onto Ian’s mattress, so Ian decides to call it a reward, even if only in his head. For now.

“I’m gonna fuck you like this, Mick,” Ian says, and he’s breathing heavily and so turned on it hurts, but he does his best to affect a tone like he’s just stating an everyday fact – the grass is green, the sky is blue, I’m gonna fuck you on the floor while you claw at the sheets of my bed because I told you to – because he thinks he’ll like the effect, and he is most definitely not wrong. Mickey whimpers, grinds his hips down into Ian’s lap, and gasps, “Yes, please.”

“Manners will get you a lot,” Ian mentions casually, taking to the role he’s just created for himself with both instinct and relish. He slides his hands up Mickey’s sides, underneath the t-shirt, and drags his thumbs back and forth over Mickey’s nipples teasingly. Mickey has sensitive nipples, but he’s always made a fuss about Ian playing with them before now. Ian figures it must have made him feel girly or something, but now he just presses into the touch and moans out Ian’s name.

“Please, Ian, please. Please,” he whispers, and Ian moans too, rolls his own hips against Mickey’s perfect ass a couple times before he takes his hands away from Mickey’s nipples, replacing one with his mouth, and teeth (“Fuck! Yes! _Please_ , Ian, _ah_!” Mickey shouts), and untying the drawstring at Mickey’s waist and pulling the sweats down over Mickey’s ass, bare underneath, and giving it a firm two-handed squeeze.

It takes a little awkward shuffling to get the sweats completely out of the way without having to go too far from the inviting vee of Mickey’s open legs. He doesn’t bother with his own pants, because he’d have to stand up, no thanks, just opens up his fly and pulls his own cock out. When he gets back into position, it rests heavily on Mickey’s hip, just to the side of Mickey’s own smaller dick, and they both groan in a combination of relief and anticipation.

Acting on pure impulse power, Ian puts his own mouth back on Mickey’s chest and sticks two fingers inside Mickey’s.

“Suck,” he growls, scraping his teeth roughly over Mickey’s soft pecs, and Mickey obeys immediately with a wanton groan, sliding his tongue around and in between them, lewd and wet and very distracting (not that Ian could ever imagine something better to pay attention to). Finally, Ian deems his fingers wet enough and pulls them away, a string of saliva trailing after them from Mickey’s bottom lip, catching the light from the window just enough to make it noticeable. He brings the digits down between Mickey’s cheeks, using his other hand to hold one of Mickey’s thighs up to spread his legs further for easier access. At first he just brushes his middle finger over Mickey’s hole, making Mickey curse breathlessly (“You fucking dick – _ah!_ – I fucking said ‘please’!”), but he’s too impatient to draw the teasing out for long, and quickly presses both fingers in, smooth and slow but in one steady thrust, all the way in to the last knuckle. The moan Mickey lets out is long and low, throaty, and so, so happy. Ian has never met a guy who likes his ass played with as much as Mickey does, and he also has never met a need he has been more glad to fulfill.

Ian only fingers Mickey for a hot minute, while Mickey rolls his hips into every little thrust of Ian’s wrist and Ian watches raptly the play of the muscles of his straining arms in the shadows, and Mickey curses Ian and begs for him in equal measure, before he’s frantically checking his pockets for a condom and of course he doesn’t fucking have one— And Mickey says, “Without.”

“Without?” Ian repeats, frozen, coming out of the bossy haze he’s been enjoying in surprise. They’ve never ever done it without before. Ian had always figured Mickey wouldn’t want to. But Mickey just nods sharply, and snaps, “Yeah, but now though, if you’re fucking gonna do it at all,” snippy after being made to wait what, for them, is a really long time, and just like that Ian is back in charge. He grabs Mickey’s ass cheeks and pulls them apart more than necessary, opening him up as much as possible just for the look and the feeling, and then nudges the head of his dick up against Mickey’s exposed hole and leaves it there. He’s not disappointed when Mickey whines high in the back of his throat and chants out, “Fuck, please please please Ian please,” and he lets go with one hand, grinning, point well made. He spits onto his fingers and wipes them over Mickey’s already wet hole, making up for the extra lube that would have been on the condom. Mickey asked for it bare, not dry, so Ian will do his best to deliver the first and not the other, despite the urgency (and the begging) that is keeping him from getting up to dig the actual lube out from between his bed and the wall.

The slide in is a little rough with the minimal prep, but Mickey doesn’t seem to mind (“Fuck! Yes! Move, Ian, please move, _fuck_ …”) and Ian certainly doesn’t. Mickey is tight and hot around him, and he keeps clenching even tighter as he flexes his ass and his hips in order to rock into the rhythm Ian starts up because of the very limited leverage of his position – the position he’s still holding just because Ian said so. Ian groans loud and begins to fuck Mickey harder at the thought, and loops his arms around Mickeys’ waist to help him move with it, digging his teeth into Mickey’s collarbone and probably leaving a mark that will last a while. Ian’s mouthful quiets the obscene noises he makes involuntarily as his hips slam against Mickey’s ass and his bed slams against the wall, but Mickey can’t muffle himself (isn’t _allowed_ to), and when Ian manages to get at just the right angle in this new position he gets to hear every moan and cry that echoes out into the room. There’s no way they can’t hear them downstairs at this point, but Ian just doesn’t care.

Ian bows his back so that he can transfer his teeth from Mickey’s collar to his previously teased nipple, and Mickey arches up into him hard, shouts Ian’s name. He’s going hoarse, and Ian’s blood boils with pleasure at the thought. Good, he thinks, and then decides to say it out loud again.

“Listen to you,” he growls into Mickeys chest, licking that one abused nipple roughly in between words. “I hope you wake up with no voice and think about how good I fucked you every time you try to speak.”

“Fuck,” Mickey gasps, “yeah.”

“Yeah,” Ian repeats, with satisfaction, and then sits up to hold Mickey’s hips tight and pound him faster and harder, Mickey crying out harshly with every thrust now, his back perpetually bowed, looking ethereally erotic in the low orangey light and deep shadows.

Ian comes first, with his head thrown back, and with a throaty cut off groan, his hands tightening on Mickey’s hips and making the smaller man whimper and press into the pressure as much as he can. Ian has a hazy, post-coital thought that maybe Mickey might like some finger-shaped bruises. That could definitely be arranged. For now though, he just lowers Mickey back down to a more relaxed position in his lap, for all that Mickey is still tense, right on the edge.

“This is a good look on you,” Ian says, his voice sounding lazy after coming. Mickey whines desperately, like he thinks Ian might leave him hanging and he can’t decide if he likes the idea or not. They’ll come back to that too. But not tonight. Tonight Ian grips Mickey’s jaw again to press deep kisses into Mickey’s open mouth and wraps his other hand, just a hair too tightly, around Mickey’s weeping cock (Ian wishes he could see it, red and shiny and waiting for him). Mickey tries to kiss Ian back, but he’s too caught up in the feeling of his approaching orgasm to really do much more than groan and gasp (and stay just where he was put). Ian edges Mickey a little bit longer, until Mickey can do nothing but gulp in needy, desperate breath, and once or twice gasp out Ian’s name pleadingly, and so sweet sounding, and then he finally adjusts his grip to just how Mickey likes it and brings him off in two strokes. Mickey just keeps making those lovely breathy noises as he comes, unable to catch his breath enough to shout, and Ian bites all along the column of his throat as he strokes him through it until Mickey is whimpering and shaking a little in oversensitivity, pleased as fucking punch.

Ian pulls away, a little reluctantly but not too much since that way he gets to look at how Mickey is totally limp in his lap, except for his hands which are still maintaining a weak grip on the crumpled sheets behind him. On a whim, Ian brings two fingers down to Mickey’s now empty hole to smear around the come that’s sluggishly leaking out, and Mickey moans brokenly, like he just can’t take it.

“You like having my come in you, huh, Mick?” Ian says. It’s not a question but Mickey whimpers out, “yeah,” anyway. Ian must admit, it’s pretty hot, to feel Mickey all wet and sloppy from getting fucked, to know it’s not just lube, but Ian’s come and his own spit that’s making a mess of him. Ian moans quietly too, brings his dirty fingers up to Mickey’s mouth to smear his come over Mickey’s lips and chin, and then their tongues meet in the middle when they both try to lick it up.

They sit there and breathe each other’s air for a minute, and Mickey slowly, almost hesitantly, finally lets go of Ian’s sheets and brings his hands down so that he can rest his arms loosely around Ian’s shoulders instead.

“Spilled beer on your pillow,” Ian admits eventually. Mickey just grunts, too tired to care.

“Sleep in the bed with me,” Ian says, and Mickey doesn’t say or do anything, which Ian happily takes as the yes that it is. He stands on wobbly legs and helps Mickey up too, gets into the bed first and pulls Mickey in tight against his side, covers them up with his blankets, and holds Mickey close and kisses him deeply, Mickey gradually becoming less and less responsive as he gets closer to sleep.

Ian’s not quite ready to drop off yet, though. He’s thinking about that ‘other stuff’ Carl mentioned earlier, and the more he does the bigger his curiosity grows. He sees a visit to the library and its useless porn blockers in his imminent future. As in, first thing in the morning, probably.

“Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?” he asks Mickey’s temple.

“My back and shoulders are telling me absolutely fucking nothing,” Mickey answers from the hollow of Ian’s throat, his voice muffled by Ian’s skin and by drowsiness. There’s a pause and then he adds, “Unless you wanna fuck me again,” with a breathiness in his tone that lets Ian know that ‘unless you wanna’ actually means ‘I want you to’. “I could get fucked again, no prob. You like to do all the work anyway.”

“Careful,” Ian warns, laughing. “Maybe I’ll make you ride me next time.” Mickey moans helplessly, and then Lip gripes from the doorway, “Jesus, are you two assholes still not done?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey says easily, not bothering to sound more awake, and Ian feels bubbly inside.

“It’s safe,” he tells Lip. And then he runs his fingers through Mickey’s sweat dampened hair, making it stand up, until they both fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *eddard stark voice* fluff is coming


	6. That Time Ian Uses a Public Library Computer to Research BDSM (We've All Been There, No?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally complete guys, gals, and nonbinary pals! Holy smokes, folks! Thanks for sticking it out.

Ian does fuck Mickey again in the morning, like had been briefly suggested. He decides to have mercy on Mickey, whose shoulders feel tight to the touch, and sadly doesn't get ridden. Maybe they'll do that tomorrow. Instead, he directs a half asleep Mickey onto his stomach, gives him a long upper back massage, and fucks him slow and steady while muttering compliments into the back of his neck. Mickey comes oddly quick (yet another thing that Ian files away for later) and then tells Ian to keep fucking him anyway. He even says please, and Ian laughs quietly at how quickly Mickey took to politeness when Ian asked for it.

After he comes too, Ian rolls Mickey over onto his back and licks him clean, and then just keeps on kissing his soft belly because he can and he wants to.

"Fuck're you doin'?" Mickey mumbles, no more awake now than he was an hour ago. Ian looks up at him, grins widely at the pillow crease across his cheek and how he only has one eye open, and shrugs as best as he can while leaning on his elbows. Slowly, he crawls his way up Mickey's body so that he can kiss Mickey's lips too, making Mickey hum happily and sink deeper into Ian's pillow.

"What do you want for breakfast?" he asks, right into Mickey's mouth.

"To go back to sleep," Mickey says, and Ian laughs again, feeling light and free. 

"I'll bring you back some lunch, then," he tells Mickey with a grin. "I have to go take care of something." Both of Mickey's eyes open at that, and he looks curious but maybe also a little worried (Ian is seriously impressed with how good he's gotten at reading Mickey, even though, clearly, sometimes he still can't). Ian plants another kiss on Mickey. It's still a little new that he can, that they can, and it makes Ian feel better about them every time he does it. He thinks maybe it might have the same effect on Mickey.

Despite the crease between his eyebrows, Mickey doesn't ask Ian what he needs to do, so Ian takes it upon himself to answer without prompting: "I have to go to the library." Mickey's face squishes up in disgust and he very deliberately closes his eyes again, turns his face away, and Ian's laugh this time is anything but quiet.

"I'll be back in a few hours," he tells Mickey, and before he gets out of bed he presses his lips to Mickey's one more time.

-

At the library, at first, all Ian finds is just porn, and nothing informative, because he doesn't really know what he's looking for, exactly. After a while of searching, though, he finds a site called FetLife. He has to make an account before he can enter, and it's mostly all porn there too, but there are also essays and forums that help him a bunch. He learns the names of a lot of the things he and Mickey have apparently been doing to each other, none the fucking wiser were they, and he gets a sweet welcome message from a real person.

Ian discovers that by 'finish' Carl meant 'aftercare', and more importantly that he and Mickey haven't been doing any of it, which is bad. And also they haven't been 'negotiating' or, like, a whole host of other shit that is really important. It's a lot to handle, a little too much to take in. Ian decides, okay, one thing at a time, and steels himself to talk to Mickey when he gets back to the house, even if it means maybe or maybe not getting punched out.

He still stops in at the sex shop before grabbing some food, though. There was a lot of porn. Sue him for getting ideas. He picks out a couple items that he actually pays for, primarily so that he can show the bag to Mickey and watch him try to guess what's in it. At the counter, he also sleeves a couple flavored condoms, mostly because he thinks they're funny.

Ian waltzes back into the Gallagher house with three bags, two with grease stains growing on the bottom, and one with a 'discreet' (ha) logo. He takes the stairs two at a time and finds Mickey, as advertized, still in his bed, but awake now and looking bored on the edge of irritated.

"Jesus," he says when Ian comes into the room. "Fucking took you long enough. Whadja do? Read the whole damn place?" Ian just rolls his eyes and tosses one of the food bags at Mickey, who catches it and immediately peers inside. They eat their fake ass fast food burritos in companionable silence, Mickey naked in the bed and just barely covered with Ian's sheets, and Ian in layers, leaning against the dresser. When Mickey reaches back into his bag, Ian says, "Leave that one. It's for after."

Mickey, who was looking murderous for a second at being told what to do outside of the proper mood, especially regarding food, pauses and looks at Ian with dangerously narrowed eyes.

"After?" he repeats, and Ian bares his teeth in a particular sort of grin as he pulls the last bag out from behind his back.

"After," he confirms, gesturing with the bag, logo on full display, so that there's no room for misinterpretation. But Mickey's eyes stay narrowed.

"Thought you didn't like toys," he says. Ian would call it pouting, but he likes his balls right where they are, thanks. Instead, he declares, "I'm widening my horizons," and tosses Mickey this bag too so that he can see how. Mickey pulls out each item one at a time, reading the label back to Ian in a flat voice.

"Bondage tape."

"Yeah. Apparently it only sticks to itself."

"O-Ring- This is a  _ gag _ ?" Mickey looks over at Ian with wide eyes and a doubtful frown, holding up the packaged gag for Ian to see, as if he isn't the one who picked it out and bought it. Ian bites the inside of his cheek a little, nervous because Mickey has yet to actually give any opinions.

"Yeah," he replies, quiet. "The circle part goes in your mouth. Keeps it open."

"Goes in  _ my  _ mouth, huh?" says Mickey. He's rough as fuck, but he's teasing, and Ian instantly feels better. Either they'll use these things or they won't, whatever either way. "Says who?"

"Well," Ian answers with a cautious shrug. Despite the new lack of nerves, he's still waiting on a yay or a nay. "I was hoping maybe says you." There's a long pause, and Ian continues to wait, patient now that he's not worried about the eventual outcome. Finally Mickey wonders (a little passive aggressively, probably), "What's in it for me?"

"I don't know," Ian admits grudgingly. And then, "You wanna find out?" Mickey looks down at the thing in his hands, fiddles with it, and then sets it aside.

"What the hell is this shit, Ian?" he finally asks, with far more gravity than Ian is used to him speaking with. For just a moment, he seems very… grown up. But Ian takes a deep breath and reminds himself that he's being grown up about this right now too, and they're on even ground again.

"Just toys," he answers, just as grave. "Same effect, probably, but better aesthetics, I guess." Mickey lets the pause drag again, and Ian's nerves start to come back because his pretty blue eyes are starting to look kind of skittish.

"Same effect as what?" he demands, challenging.  _ Same effect as nothing _ , the expression on his face seems to tell Ian the answer is.  _ There's nothing _ , his glare insists.  _ Leave it alone _ . But Ian can't go along with that. Not this time.

"Same effect as when I just tell you what to do without them." Ian tries to make sure his voice is strong, sure, but hopefully not too authoritative. They're supposed to talk about it as equals, and only play at one being more powerful than the other. He doesn't quite know how to do that, but he knows he never wants to make Mickey feel like he must have felt all week (like Mickey has been made to feel by some certain other people, probably). So he has to try.

Mickey surges up, into Ian's space, snapping, "Fuck you, man," and Ian's sheets fall away from his otherwise still uncovered body. Ian looks, for just a second, but all he really sees is that Mickey's chest is flushed blotchily and his ribs are visibly moving with his breaths, his fists clenched. "I make my own fucking choices. You ain't fucking in charge of me."

"I know that," Ian acknowledges, keeping his voice level, refusing to rise to the bait even though it'd be so much easier just to have a fight and pretend it was never brought up. "I just like to make you feel good. And I think you like -"

"You think I like this?" Mickey interrupts in a vicious snarl, grabbing the still packaged gag from the bed and brandishing it in Ian's face. They're even closer together now, Mickey having taken another few steps forward so that Ian is pressed up tightly against the dresser, one drawer handle digging just shy of painfully into the small of his back.

"I don't know, Mickey," he says, succumbing to irritation and snippy over it despite his very best efforts. Mickey has always known how to push Ian's buttons, even before they knew each other so well. By now he's a pro at it. "That's why I fucking asked."

"Fuck you, man. Whatever," Mickey repeats, and though it seems the wind has been taken out of his sails by Ian's somewhat weak attempt at patience, his eyes are still just a tad too wide and too bright. They stand there for a moment and breathe each other's air, practically nose to nose but not too happy about it, and then suddenly Mickey adds, " _ You _ just like to make  _ me  _ feel good, huh?" Ian has just the barest second to think, huh, maybe they should talk about that too, before Mickey has grabbed the tape too and slaps it and the gag into Ian's chest with a thud and a thwap respectively. "Why don't you fucking wear it, then?"

Ian thinks about it for a second. It certainly doesn't sound like a thrill, to him, but he'll admit he's a little curious anyway. Maybe he can feel what Mickey feels - in this situation anyway. Maybe it will help him understand Mickey better in other situations. Maybe it'll just be fun.

So he says, "Okay." Mickey's eyes fly wide in shock, but he doesn't let himself hesitate for too long. He doesn't ask Ian to repeat himself either, just slips Ian's spare pocket knife from underneath the mattress and stabs it into the shrink plastic around the gag so he can tear the thing open and yank the gag out from the sharp-edged mess. It's now that he stops, for just a minute, to look uncertainly from the gag in his hands up into Ian's face. Ian feels fine about it, though, so instead of letting Mickey's unsurity turn into any real doubt, he just opens his mouth, not a little cheekily. Mickey rolls his eyes, and fits the hard rubber ring of the gag between Ian's teeth. His hands are gentle as he fastens the straps of the gag behind Ian's head, and Ian leans into his touch unabashedly.

When Mickey moves back a step and lifts the bondage tape, and his eyebrows, in question Ian slides his overshirt down his arms and lets it crumple on the floor around his feet. Mickey steps in close again, presses his naked front flush up against Ian's clothed one, and mouths at the side of Ian's neck where his face conveniently level. It's almost like they're hugging while Mickey wraps the tape around Ian's wrists behind his back, both of their knuckles occasionally bumping into the hard wood of the dresser. Finally, Mickey is satisfied and he leads Ian by the hips to sit on the edge of the bed.

Mickey stands back to look Ian over, gag holding his mouth open, t-shirt tight across his chest with his arms pulled back like that, his hair starting to fall into his eyes which is just too bad unless Mickey decides to fix it for him. Ian looks Mickey over too - in the grand center of Ian's shared room naked as the day he was born and lightly flushed in the face. He lets his eyes take their sweet time making their way down, pausing on one pink nipple and then the other, tracing the few barely visible ribs, around the soft curve of Mickey's belly, the pleasingly high contrast between his pale skin and his sparse but dark happy trail. And then - the best for last - that cock. It's maybe a little bit smaller than average, but certainly no less attractive for it. Ian loves to have Mickey's cock in his mouth, in his hand, and having it in his sightline is really good too. Mickey's not hard right now, but by the time Ian has looked his fill (for now) he's starting to get there.

Ian forgets about the gag for a second and tries to dirty talk, confused when all that comes out is, "Yuhh yihhg-" before remembering. Mickey snorts at him and Ian shrugs with easy amusement, unbothered. But Mickey still doesn't do anything but stand there staring, and Ian realizes after a moment that Mickey has no idea what to do, and more importantly, he's uncomfortable with it. The realization makes Ian suddenly uncomfortable too, uneasy that he can't tell Mickey something, anything, and solve the problem. Ian's head spins for a minute and he can feel himself tense up all over, his heart racing unpleasantly, beyond his control, before he takes another deep breath through his forcibly held open mouth and tells himself resolutely to think of something. All he can think of, though, is how he was sitting exactly here last week, and what happened then. It'll have to do.

Ian spreads his legs, slow, deliberate, and looks at Mickey expectantly. He watches as Mickey swallows hard, as his posture relaxes and his dick jumps, and feels a heady rush of security and arousal all mixed up together like they're the same thing. Ian waits, patient but eager, for Mickey to kneel between his jean-clad legs, and there's another surge of heated contentment in his head when Mickey doesn't shy away from it like he might have a year ago.

Mickey's hands shake just a little while he undoes Ian's belt and pants, but Ian can see him panting, meets his eyes - all pupil - every time he looks up. Ian can hear himself occasionally make a wordless, nonsensical encouraging noise, helpless to hold them in with the gag, but he sees Mickey shiver and blink hard every time, so he feels powerful about it instead of vulnerable.

Ian squirms when Mickey's got his pants all undone, looking forward to his mouth, and he leans forward too, pulling his shoulders tighter, to make sure he doesn't miss anything. He's rewarded with the same excited attentiveness from Mickey in return, though he's sure both of them are acting instinctively.

Ian wishes he could run his hands through Mickey's hair like he has in the past, even pulls uncomfortably at the bondage tape around his wrists, but he's thoroughly distracted from the thought when Mickey's mouth closes around the head of his cock. Mickey's mouth is so wet he must have been salivating, at least a little, and Ian curls toward him further with a groan. Jesus, open-mouthed like that it's so loud. But Ian doesn't have time to feel even a whisper of embarrassment over it, because Mickey groans too, and his hips jerk up into the empty air between them. So instead of worrying about what he might sound like, Ian just does it again.

The whole blowjob goes about like that. Ian keeps getting louder (and louder and louder) with no way to regulate himself while the ring of the gag holds his mouth open, and the louder Ian gets the louder Mickey gets in response, for all that he's muffled instead with Ian's cock filling up his mouth. Ian watches Mickey's head bob, watches his hair grow dark with his sweat, his skin wet too. Hears every moan and whimper with just as much pleasure and focus as he feels the slick, wet slide and suck of Mickey's perfect mouth working him closer and closer to orgasm, the compressed heat in his gut that gets hotter and tighter the closer he gets. Ian does his best to rock his hips with what little leverage he has, loves the feel of the back of Mickey's throat on the head of his dick, and even more loves the feel of Mickey moaning when he hits it, loves watching himself sink that little bit further into Mickey's mouth and Mickey taking it and loving it just as much. Ian feels his climax coming and realizes vaguely that he can't warn Mickey about it, and then, just as vaguely, that he wouldn't have particularly wanted to tell him anyway. It feels like a wave of burning hot pleasure all throughout Ian's whole body when it happens, and he shouts and gasps raggedly through the gag, but he won't let his eyes squeeze shut like they want to so that he can watch with a deep satisfaction as Mickey chokes a little bit but doesn't draw away, and swallows.

Mickey pulls back from Ian's lap with a spit shiny, slack, and swollen red mouth, and there's a steady stream of quiet gasps and whimpers coming from it that make Ian wish he could get hard again right this second. Since that's unfortunately impossible even for someone as young and horny as Ian, he settles instead for pressing one booted foot against the vulnerable inside of each of Mickey's thighs to pull them apart to more prominently display what Ian loves to see.

Mickey's cock is even redder than his lips, purplish at the tip, wet and shiny and leaking, and it jerks excitedly under Ian's approving gaze. Ian wants nothing more than to see Mickey come and come undone ( _ further _ undone, that is), and from the way Mickey leans back a little -  _ presenting _ , Jesus - his face shows it. But he likes them in this position too much to change it up. With only the second it takes for him to think of it, Ian uses one boot to push Mickey's right hand into his own lap and press it there until Mickey whines at the pressure. Then Ian eases off and puts his foot back where it was, holding Mickey's thighs open nice and wide to frame the centerpiece - and the show.

Mickey jerks himself without needing any other prompting, leaning back on his free hand so that he can thrust his hips up into his fist easier, his head tossed back like it's just as good as getting fucked (and from the noises he's making as he does it, it must be). Ian keeps the treaded soles of his boots pressed firmly against the soft fleshy parts of Mickey's legs, digs them in harshly whenever Mickey does something Ian doesn't want him doing. Mickey whines, sharp and high in his throat but anything but unhappy, and presses up into the rough treatment every time Ian does it, but he still adjusts his stroke until Ian lets up. Soon, Ian has Mickey working himself at a torturously slow pace, his grip looser than Ian knows he really likes it, and only rotating his hips slow and smooth. Mickey whimpers and gasps and looks pleadingly into Ian's face every now and then, but Ian just watches him, and soon Mickey gives up on earning any mercy that way and starts quietly begging instead.

"Please, Ian," he says, his voice high and tight with both pleasure and frustration (just how Ian likes to hear him best). "Please can I come?" Ian, of course, can't answer, but has no particular interest in doing so anyway. At least not yet. He just slides his boots in closer to Mickey's groin to hear the thready groan that earns him, and to see the red marks in the shape of his footprint that slowly fade from Mickey's thighs. After a few more seconds of listening to Mickey's unbearably pretty begging ("Please,  _ please _ , ah - oh god -  _ Ian _ !") Ian loses his grip on his patience and digs his feet in hard again, and his pulse jumps with exhilaration when Mickey actually yelps. Mickey's head snaps forward so he can look at Ian again, his eyes wild with need, his hair damp and curling in his elevated body heat.

"Yes?" he gasps out hopefully. "Yes? Can I?" Ian pauses as if he's thinking about it (he's not) and then nods slowly, but he doesn't lessen the pressure he's putting on Mickey's squishy, sensitive upper thighs. Mickey tightens his grip gratefully and it only takes him three firm strokes to shoot come onto his own chest with a beautiful series of shaky moans. Ian drags his feet back down to rest on the ground between Mickey's legs, and delights at the whimper Mickey lets out at the friction. They rest there like that for a long couple moments wherein Mickey very, very slowly begins to catch his breath, but eventually Ian nudges Mickey's balls with a boot in impatience and Mickey clambers unsteadily to his feet to start on freeing Ian from his purchases.

When they've showered and they're both clean and naked in Ian's bed, eating the last burritos that Ian had them save which have gone cold and kind of gross, Ian strokes the fingers of one hand back and forth over the pink marks on Mickey's thighs, both soothing and teasing. He grins smugly, and Mickey is most definitely pouting.

-

“So,” Ian says, after they've had a short nap and are cuddled up on their sides, just this side of too warm under the sheets. Mickey feels the rumble of his voice in his chest where his face is pressed right into it. The other Gallaghers will be home soon, so Mickey knows Ian is going to try to bring up their previous conversation (as if his point wasn't already proved enough).

“Let’s not talk about it,” Mickey interrupts immediately, not opening his eyes until Ian’s silence gets heavy. He forces himself to look, but sees only a vague discomfort in Ian’s expression instead of the scorn and annoyance he was almost ready to expect. “Yet,” he adds on impulse, even though it makes his heart race with nerves. “Let’s not talk about it yet.” Ian thinks about it for a second, walking two fingers idly up Mickey’s side, and then finally sighs his acceptance and gives Mickey a brief kiss instead of arguing. Relieved, Mickey sighs too, closes his eyes again and tucks his head into Ian’s neck. He smells good.

“I just gotta know one thing, Mick,” Ian says suddenly, not even a minute of seemingly comfortable silence later, and Mickey tenses but holds his tongue, letting Ian know by his lack of protest to go ahead and ask whatever it is. “Do you like it?” Ian closes one long-fingered hand tightly around Mickey’s wrist as he says it, so that Mickey’s answer rushes out on a harsh breath that is almost half a moan.

“Yeah,” he wheezes, and then clears his throat embarrassedly and repeats in a stronger, firmer voice, “Yeah.” He feels Ian’s giddy smile against his cheek as Ian crowds even closer to him. He nudges Mickey’s jaw with his nose, prompting Mickey to lift his chin and provide his throat for Ian’s tongue to explore lazily.

“You like me?” he murmurs against the spit slicked skin. Mickey reopens his eyes just to roll them at the ceiling, but he’s smiling when he agrees, “Yeah, Gallagher. I like you.” Ian giggles quietly, his joy infectious and making Mickey grin hard enough to make his cheeks hurt. He licks wetly at the sensitive lobe of Mickeys ear, closing his lips on it gently, with just the barest touch of his teeth, and Mickey groans softly at the tease, his eyes dropping shut again.

“I like you too,” Ian tells him huskily, whispering the words, heavy, hot, and damp with the closeness of his breath, right into Mickey’s ear, and Mickey finds it suddenly very hard to breathe. Ian rolls them over so that he’s on top of Mickey, heavy and warm, his hands now on both of Mickey’s wrists and pressing them firmly into the mattress. He bites at a spot on Mickey’s neck where Mickey hopes he plans to suck a mark later, nevermind their old (out-dated) rules.

“Don’t move,” he purrs, and then slides one big hand around Mickey’s bared throat – just touching, for now. Mickey looks up at him through heavy lidded eyes and doesn’t move. Ian grins down at him widely, and his teeth are sharp, and his hand is heavy, and Mickey feels safe.

And this time, it stays that way.

**Author's Note:**

> look me up on [tumblr](http://redblooded-disadvantage.tumblr.com/) for stale meta n fresh memes


End file.
